'Highway Patrolman' by Dar Williams (Springsteen cover)

The French slasher flick, High Tension, (one of my favorite guilty pleasures) tips its hand in the opening scene. You see a young woman sitting in what appears to be a hospital room. She is alive. She is healing. But she has been through hell. Her wounds are deep, painful, and raw. She had met evil, and it damn near killed her.

The next scene jumps backward in time to before her injuries. This young woman is the heroine of the film. She is so beautiful; so hopeful; so sympathetic. You come to care about her against your better judgment, knowing full well what awaits her. It’s a dirty trick the filmmakers have played. Each time she hides or runs from the killer, you cheer for her escape and safety. But the first image never leaves the back of your mind. You know she won’t always get away clean. Maybe not this scene, maybe not the next; but she is going to be hurt, and hurt bad.

The same trick is employed to similar devastation by Dar Williams in her cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Highway Patrolman”. Now I love the Boss as much as anyone, and generally have little patience for artists who paint over his masterpieces with new colors (Dear Folk Singers Everywhere; Stop fucking with “The River”. Sincerely, A Concerned Audiophile); but Dar’s cover is exceptional. It destroys the original. Here’s why: In Bruce’s version, the narrator believes his bullshit. The song is the narrator’s explanation for letting his brother run from his crime. In Dar’s version, the narrator knows that he’s wrong; it just hurts too damn much to say it straight. Dar’s song is a confession. Her vocals have a wary resignation and deep hurt front and center. They tell you immediately that the story ends badly; that the narrator is suffering; that his fraternal fidelity leaves him battered and broken. But you don’t want to believe it. You want to believe that Frankie and his brother might one day be “laughing and drinking” and “taking turns dancing with Maria” again. Then you hear that voice…

Turn off the lights and listen to Dar Williams’s ‘Highway Patrolman’ at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KIsjKAHubA

Trust me. It’s fantastic.

'I Bombed Korea' by Cake

John McCrea did not bomb Korea.

He was just 29 in 1994 when this tune was included on Cake's debut album, and yet the song has been written in the first person. It's the story of a war vet, sitting in a bar and reflecting upon his past.

Red flowers bursting down below us.
Those people didn't even know us.
We didn't know if we would live or die.
We didn't know if it was wrong or right.
I bombed Korea every night.

On paper, these lyrics are soaked with emotional content - compassion, fear, morality, and violence. However, in typical Cake fashion, John is talk-singing every line with a smirk on his face and an attitude that just seems very...1994. How the song's protagonist really feels about the people he knows that he has killed, is pretty much left for the listener to decide.

In this case, the clashing tone of the heavy lyrics and the lighter performance actually works well. The clash has been embraced all around, and is accentuated further by the melodic guitars and the inevitable Cake trumpet appearance.

It's a pretty catchy tune about nightmares and depression. Or maybe it's not that at all. You figure it out.

ON A SIDE NOTE: One thing that makes this song unique is that every verse changes key, transposing every chord one whole step higher. In simpler terms: It's what Kermit the Frog does for the last verse of "The Rainbow Connection." Hope that helps. I believe Phil Collins has done it a handful of times as well, in order to give a little energy boost at the end of a tune. BUT "I Bombed Korea" is the only song I can think of offhand that does this TWICE. The first verse is in G, the second is in A, and the third in B.

"I BOMBED KOREA"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JPULswVojE

and, for good measure,
"THE RAINBOW CONNECTION"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSFLZ-MzIhM

-JEZMUND T.F.B.

'Summer 68' by 'Pink Floyd'

Hello. This is not Matt.

This is his brother Adam, who will henceforth be known to this blog as JEZMUND THE FAMILY BERZERKER. Either you get it or you don't.

Or, possibly, you didn't get it at first - but then you Googled the phrase.

Maybe you just got the idea to Google it from the previous sentence.

I'll give you a second to do so, if you so choose.

I have encouraged Matt to come up with a handle as well. I can't sign my posts JEZMUND THE FAMILY BERZERKER if he signs his "Matt."

MOVING ON:

Like Matt, I am a music fan. But then again, aren't we all? It's a universal language with the power to communicate ideas, stir emotions, stimulate the intellect, and bring people together. Music can transport your mindset to another time or another place while still remaining a part of your experience in the present.

The power of music is not lost, even on those who know nothing of rock history or trivia. My mother attended a Rolling Stones concert several years ago and told me that it was GREAT. I asked what they played. "Rock music," she responded.

My first Song of the Day pick is from a band that seems to appeal to everyone from hard core music snobs to, well, my mother.

Pink Floyd is loved and respected by people involved in the modern indie scene, the electronic music scene, folk circles, the jamband scene, and by classic rock fans all over the world. They've been covered by bands in every musical genre, from classical to metal. Their concept albums have come to be the standard by which all others are judged.

Even our family dog is named after the band. Meet "Floyd."



The song that I chose is "Summer '68" - which actually is from 1970's Atom Heart Mother. Post Syd, but pre Dark Side, if you will. It's an especially interesting example from their catalog because of the ways in which it alternates sounding both old and modern. The piano section that opens the song has the qualities of a timeless melodic pop tune. One minute in, the guitar and drums spiral the song off in a modern rock direction that is ahead of its time. Before you know it, the Beatlesesque horns and Beach Boysey vocal harmonies chime in and we're back in 1960s territory.

It's a nostalgia tinged tune that deserves a modern cover by, say, Radiohead or The Flaming Lips.

Both written and sung by pianist Rick Wright, this song has also been chosen in respect of his relatively recent passing in 2008. A complete Pink Floyd reunion - like the one we saw happen briefly at Live 8 in 2005, can never happen again.

Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIQB1oAVbvQ

- JEZMUND T.F.B.

'Mad Man Blues' by 'The Rosewood Thieves'

Though it looks like I wrote about my ear infection Wednesday, I actually wrote that post on Tuesday when the internet was down at home. After the internet returned to life later that evening, I was too distracted by the splashy news of Joran van der Sloot’s confession to get around to posting my invaluable contribution to the field of musical criticism until the other night.

Grizzly murder(s?) aside, here are the things about Joran van der Sloot that I enjoy:

1. His name. Simply put, Mr. (‘Baron’, perhaps?) van der Sloot was blessed with the perfect Bond villain name. Work up a Scottish lather with your best Sean Connery imitation and yell out, “Where is the plutonium, van der Sloot!” Tell me that just doesn’t feel right.
2. The fact that he travels the world playing high-stakes poker. I mean, really, could he be more of a Bond villain?! At this point, smart money is on the unfortunate Ms. Holloways remains being found in an elaborate tank of sharks and electric eels beneath the island of Aruba.
3. The exotic (and, um, cinematic) locales. Aruba! Peru! Good thing he was caught before his crime spree could reach the Galapagos.
4. Not satisfied by murdering an innocent teenager, he has the gall to then extort her grieving parents to fund his participation in a regional poker tournament (add all necessary “allegedly”s before the crimes as you see fit). That’s a whole new type of evil --supervillain evil … At this point, if 007 isn’t blowing up Baron van de Sloot’s Peruvian jail/secret-headquarters on the big screen by next summer, I am going to go film it myself.

This 007 tangent got me thinking about who I would want to see perform the iconic opening number in my Bond movie. After much searching, I have settled on ‘The Rosewood Thieves’ as my nominee and their song ‘Mad Man Blues’ as representative of their most Bond-worthy output.

‘The Rosewood Thieves’ play mid-60s (post-drugs, pre-burnout) blues/rock/folk (think ‘Beatles’ then take two respectful steps back) that has the effortless cool of a classic tuxedo, along with the requisite undercurrent of danger apropos of the life of a secret agent. The only thing The Rosewood Thieves are missing (and why I might call them back for a second interview before inking their contract) is the sultriness needed to tease out flesh in the voluptuous silhouettes dancing sleekly in the barrel of a gun as the primary cast is introduced. They have the sauce, but need work on the sizzle.

You can see a video of ‘The Rosewood Thieves’ performing ‘Mad Man Blues’ live at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Mo8NMQaSr4

How about you; who would you have sing the opener?

(Note about this blog: This is meant to be an interactive experience. You are encouraged --‘encouraged’ because ‘legally mandated’ is of debatable accuracy-- to write comments about what you think of the songs I recommend, how a joke offended your delicate sensibilities, and how excited you must feel to discover quality new music.)

'Bulletproof' by 'La Roux'

So it turns out my “ear ache” was an “ear infection”. This was confirmed by three trips to a walk-in clinic over the last three days. Actually, the first trip confirmed the primary infection; the second trip found a secondary infection around the ear; and the third trip was to make sure I wasn’t going the full zombie route (i.e. that I was healing ok). My taste for brains, it turns out, is purely psychosomatic.

Discomfort and missed work aside, the major problem with the infection is that I can’t hear anything out of my left ear. Well, in truth, what I can now hear even better than before is my own voice. And I sing terribly. I sing often, yes (if it ever looks like I am on the phone while driving, you can rest assured that the phone is being used as a prop-microphone); but terribly. My singing voice is the high-pitched slur of a panicked 911 caller played on the local news. It’s the primal scream of a startled donkey mid-belch. It’s the screeching of a clay teapot full of nails and glass (and tea?). It’s worse than an ear infection has any right to be.

Ok, now that I have you in the mood for music… Let me point you in the direction of someone with a much more enjoyable voice than mine. Today’s recommendation is ‘Bulletproof’ by ‘La Roux’.

The band ‘La Roux’ is an electro-pop collaboration between two Brits with names and other background information that you can look up on Wikipedia. One is the lead singer; the other is the producer. Only the lead singer shows up on stage or on their album covers, so I am led to believe that the producer must be an ugly chap who even Lady Gaga would not pretend to fellate on stage at the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards (you know, because she’s ‘edgy’). The lead singer is not exactly pulled from the pages of Vogue either. She looks like a cross of David Bowie with Ziggy Stardust. Or with that guy from Labyrinth who’s not Hoggle. But unlike David Bowie, she is still relevant as an artist (prove me wrong, Major Tom).

I am going to go on a tangent for a minute about electro-pop, so if you have something extremely urgent to do (i.e. put out house fire, perform CPR on pets, feed dinner and/or toss cheerios in the direction of my daughter, etc); I will understand if you skip this paragraph. I put it squarely at the feet of Lady Gaga. As someone once said about something (Dr. Goober McToots nods assuredly); she may not have invented the wheel, but she sure sold a hell of a lot of wheelbarrows. Lady Gaga did not cobble together the electro-pop sound in her father’s basement with a hammer and a synthesizer; but she has certainly made it popular again. I can’t turn on the radio these days without hearing a disciple of the Gaga moaning over vibrating synth-beats. And most of those disciples aren’t fit to hold Gaga’s jockstrap.

La Roux is. The British tend to do excess better than their Puritan cousins (poorly made case and point: Though both victorious; Churchill was fat, soused, and chewing on a cancer-flute for much of World War 2; while FDR had polio-legs, initials, and a bad case of rigor-mortis by the war’s end). All of this points to the Brits having a leg up in an electro-pop field defined by excess and inflated presence.

La Roux also does this wondrous thing where the singer stutters words at the beginning of some sentences for rhythmic effect. It gets me every time. As a kid who dropped his r’s, I am a sucker for speech pathology.

A link to a video of the song can be found at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l40bQFqJX6I

'Woke Up New' by 'The Mountain Goats'

I have an ear ache. Seeing it written on the computer screen, it looks pretty wimpy. Neither ‘ear’ nor ‘ache’ has much emotional intensity to it. Hell, most of us (and its damn near universal with the fairer sex) punch needles through our ears for cosmetic reasons by the time we’re in middle school (I didn’t because my father told me that I did not want to do so no matter what outside pressure told me I wanted to do –dizzyingly circular logic that effectively hemmed my attempts to rebel). Thus, it appears that I am complaining now about an ailment which pigtailed Beiber-fever girls experience in recreation. ‘Middle school’ on the other hand, is a phrase whose brutality will never be called into question. I am experiencing ‘middle school’, but it’s in my ears and it effing aches, ok?

I promised you that I would not make this blog about personal asides. I intend to mostly keep that promise. I am only mentioning the ear ache to explain what I am doing awake at 5:30am (screaming in pain); how I am finding the time and energy to post a second song recommendation this morning (there is nothing else to do this early, sleeping is out of the question, and the walk-in clinics don’t open until 8am); and to damper any expectation (let’s pretend) that multiple postings per day will regularly occur (I intend not to go much longer feeling like I am giving birth to a scared pufferfish through my ear canal.)

On to the music! Today’s bonus recommendation is ‘Woke Up New’ by ‘The Mountain Goats’.

‘The Mountain Goats’ consists of John Darnielle and other people that are not John Darnielle. But really, it’s all John Darnielle. He writes the songs, sings them, and plays most the instruments. I am not sure what the other band members do. I think one is a microphone stand.

John (yep, we’re on a first-name basis) has a unique singing voice that rests on the tight ledge between melody and conversation. He doesn’t ‘sing’ as much as ‘phrases with melodic lifts and pauses’. Don’t know the difference? Then you don’t know ‘The Mountain Goats’.

‘Woke Up New’ is a great example of this technique. The song chronicles “the morning that I woke up without you for the very first time” with a range of emotions (“I felt free/ and I felt lonely/ and I felt scared”) straightforwardly disclosed with none of the pronounced affect of a lost-love ballad. He trusts that the listener will understand his emotions and color within the lines that define them. He’s not playing it up for an audience; he is truly “the only person there” in song and performance.

Additionally, he cleverly magnifies small asides to draw out core sentiments that would feel uncomfortably earnest and overstuffed if said more directly:

“The first time I made coffee for just myself, I made too much of it/
But I drank it all just cause you hate it when I let things go to waste.”

In that aside is the relationship, break-up, and aftermath economically packaged into two user-friendly stanzas. If you order now, he’ll even throw in the recovery:

“And the wind began to blow and the trees began to pant/
And the world in its cold way started coming alive/
And I stood there like a business man waiting for the train/
And I got ready for the future to arrive.”

This deal was made to move!

Of final, but not lesser, note; the chorus is simply heartbreaking. I won’t spoil it with my customary sarcasm or low-brow wit. No, I am keeping the chorus locked up in a padded case on a high shelf. You can play with the verses, but the chorus is for me.

The link to the music-video of the song is:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bSdRizGYb0

Frankie's Gun --The Felice Brothers

It’s hard choosing a song for my first recommendation. I don’t want to scare off my readers (is the plural presumptuous?) by picking something too avant-garde (French for “wtf”); nor do I want to serve up the musical fast-food being flipped at the top 40 station down the street. I feel like one of those ‘American Idol’ blow-up singers (um, contestants) sniffling about the epic challenge of “song choice” during ‘Has-Been Promoting Disappointing New Album’ theme week (weeks 1 through every effing week); but it really is a major stressor. I mean for some readers (there's my grandiosity again) this might be a true blind date (I seriously considered writing “blind first date”, because even married couples go on blind dates if they are actually blind), and I want my music taste to make a stellar first impression. Can I be blamed for spending a little extra time choosing an outfit?

Ok. Choice made. I am going with ‘The Felice Brothers’ and their song ‘Frankie’s Gun’. Why? Because it’s just the right mix of con-man swagger and street-husker stagger. You get the feeling that these musicians met at a bar, drank up a tab they couldn’t afford, and are settling their debts with an impromptu performance on the bar’s sawdust covered stage. Yep, that’s vomit in the sawdust. No, it stays till the song's good and done.

If not drunks, they are certainly liars and thieves. They stole the weary bones right out of Bob Dylan and even pocketed the croak of his voice. And yet I don’t grudge them for it one bit. It’s just part of the side-show, a Carney in Bob Dylan drag. You don’t blame a wild animal for shitting in the woods, and you don’t blame a Carney for wearing his truths a little loose. Even if you do, the Carney’s not giving your dollar back.

The lyrics of this song, as best as I can tell, involve the narrator being shot by a guy named ‘Frankie’. I pieced this together by decoding the subtleties of the chorus:

“Bang bang bang went Frankie's gun
He shot me down, Lucille (x2)
He shot me down (x3)”

That’s a college education at work. It also seems that Frankie and the narrator are partners in some sort of shady business in Chicago, though the “cargo” they are transporting is never laid clear. Additionally, Lucille is said to be the narrator’s clothes-sporting lady-friend ("Count the money / But don't count the thirty in the glove box, buddy. / That's for to buy Lucille some clothes"), and the narrator is self-reported to be a staunch advocate against domestic violence (“I saw a man hit my mom one time, really / I hurt him so damn bad I had to hide in Jersey”) at least when it is directed towards his mother.

Beyond that, little else is explained or needed to be explained. A narrator coming off a bender following the passing of the exquisitely-named “Long-Legged Brenda” (pronounced with the adjective as her proper name) shouldn’t be expected to keep his story straight.

What’s that line again about a wild animal shitting in the woods?

Link to youtube video of song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rH9x4S3-wVY

The Seven Commandments

Dear World (or more precisely the handful of people I can guilt into reading this)-

I love music. I love music in an almost uncomfortable way. If people knew how much I love music; they would back away slowly from me, staring straight ahead, with a forced grin, car keys in hand, as they fumbled for their car door. Polite society would force me to register, knock on neighbors’ doors and pass out flyers about the bands and songs I couldn’t be made to shut up about. Music would block my breathy phone calls and pretend not to notice me when I follow it around the mall.

Yeah, you probably shouldn’t be here.

But you are. So here goes nothin’ (rubs hands together and flips an oversized switch attached to the internet to “blog on”). Activate self-indulgent music blog!!!

My Music Blog’s Seven Commandments:

1. This blog is music-centric. I will not use this blog as a platform to tell cutesy stories about being a dad, catalogue my meals, or wave a flag for a cause. Music is inherently personal (affects us all differently based on life experiences and ability to tolerate synthesizers, etc.), so personal references will necessarily pop up; but I will not get in front of the music. Personal stories will be the platter, not the meal, which I will catalogue accordingly.
2. Music is not sacred. Music cannot change the world; only Margret Mead can. I will not take this too seriously.
3. I will not get too hung up on being a great writer. I am not Ernest Hemingway. I am not even Muriel Hemingway. I am not even Muriel the goat (Animal Farm reference for the win!). It’s going to be modest quantity over quality here: One song per day, except when I don’t feel like it.
4. Little to no fact-checking or research will be done before posting. If you are wondering who the ‘someone’ is in my claim that “someone once said”, so am I. Only I don’t care enough to google it. If you really need me to name a source, I’m going with “Dr. Goober McToots”. Trust him, he’s a doctor.
5. I will try to post a link to the audio of the song I am writing about. If I can’t find a link, you should just go ahead and buy the song on Amazon.com or iTunes. Or you can put on your eye-patch and shoulder-parrot and sail into the lawless seas of offshore servers. It’s on your conscience, Matey.
6. I will highlight lesser-known artists and lesser-known songs. The world needs someone announcing that Bob Dylan is great like the Sahara needs a weatherman (“It’s going to be another hot and dry one! Back to you, Omar.”) Yes, Dylan is God. Yes, his music can heal lepers (wonderful side note: spell-check thought I meant to say “lemurs”!), give the blind sight, and make Katie Holmes’s acting endurable (see “Wonder Boys”); but you certainly knew all that. This blog is not a remedial class; no need to break out addition tables and alphabet posters. I aim to educate the kids who actually brought their homework to class. Also, I want to pin a street cred merit badge on my painstakingly unkempt ‘Hipster Scouts’ uniform.
7. I will not ask friends and family whether or not they have read my blog recently. Instead, I will passive-aggressively refer in passing to things I have written and see if they know what I am referencing. I will shower them with affection or scorn correspondingly.

Ok, the rules are in place. First real post will be tomorrow. Or the next day (see Commandment #3). Feel free to breathe between now and then.